In the silent sprawling corridors where shards of light play upon the glassy surface, I wander—guided by nothing more than an innate pull of the heart. Each mirror reflects a fragment, a whisper untold, an echo of me—or, perhaps, the echo of ghosts within ceilings of silver.

A mosaic of breath taken, suspended in hormones of yesterday and papers of today—hearts quiver, the mind unnodes. Here, tapes pull outward toward seams untied and breaks that sunlight hails across violet shadows. Light that dances breaks into refracted prisms; each prism, another question.

Who is the self in one mirror that desires to step into another? Who is obliged to walk when all paths recur in forms of glass and illusioned calm? These reflections are parts: misshaped histories, echoes of laughter—and they hold wit inside their dulcet voids.